Some Days Are New, Some Nights, Too

2024.08.22

Good morning that wonderful way.

Before sunrise.

The dark is still quiet setting up a hushed welcome for the light.

Why wait?

Everything in its due time, even the light keeps a schedule.

Night doesn't.
Night keeps no schedule.
Night is the default state.

A new day, good news day today.

So much change these past few years.
Like everything else it adds up.
What we get is something solid and new.

At some point the baby gets born.
At some point life is new with a new life, a new place, a new place for the light to fill.

Slow words.

Waiting for poetry is no doctor's office lobby, more than a hobby.
Words are always here, sat listening for the front desk to call them in for their appointment.

It's not forced, writing I mean.
It's more a trust exercise than anything else.

A lot of seasoned writers will tell you flow doesn't exist, that you just put down words.

There is a kind of flow, though.

It's not a magical place, or some kind of hair on fire inspired zone.

It's rhythm.
Period.
Like playing a song, you find the beat and you start to play.

Otherwise, it's just notes, just words.

Every spoken conversation goes at its own speed.
So too, with writing.

The day dictates the rhythm, at first.

Keep at it enough and you're the band leader.
You set the tone with the words.
You set the meter with your persistence.
Soon, you're in what is known as a flow state.

Write enough and your best state for writing becomes a switch to flip.

Most of the time.

Some days are new.
Some nights, too.
New members to the orchestra.
Somedays a new percussion section, the march comes with new footsteps.

We fall on comfortable things to write at first.
We set a rhythm.
I start with 'Good Morning' to stretch before going on the walk.

The sentence reminds the muscles, taps the baton, game on.

Flips the switch.

We write about the room and its ways.

It's often Abe in the morning.

So early today he looks at me from the couch rolls his eyes and goes back to sleep.

An alarm clock has always been a prison bell for me, I get up with the sun.
But sometimes he's a slow old man, sometimes the night has a thing or two to say to me that needs to be said.

I knew a woman once who never set an alarm.
It was early in my life.
It was twice as fascinating because she was highly successful.
From India, if I remember right.
Always composed, with a quiet intelligent kindness.

We all ought to set our bedrooms on the East side of the house, so the light wakes us.

I like getting up before the Sun to watch it rise.

Why, do it? Seems a lot of trouble to keep spinning the Earth.

But you have your own rhythm, too.
You spin your speed to keep making new life, the way the words go best when we reach our own best spinning speed.

Even the World has her own rhythm, even life steps to a singular song.
A song that makes all songs possible.

I could spend all day asking her why.
I could spend all day ignoring her.
She doesn't much mind either way.
Though, I secretly think she does.

We forget the trouble of spinning while we spin race to hit alarm clocks to set ourselves in motion for the day.

The sunlight is so damned loud half of the world is always taking a break from its shine.

It can be a task master.
Grow and show yourself!
Do! Do! Do!

A hot hand slapping the sphere to keep her spinning.

I like to believe though she chooses to.

Because like all mothers should do, she takes care of what she brings home.
Then keeps a safe home for it.